


Best Enemy

by sister_coyote



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Study, F/F, Femslash, Fightsex, Hatesex, Public Sex, Turkfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-06
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tifa likes <i>everyone</i>. With one important exception.  Because sometimes it takes a little loathing to get you through the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Enemy

The thing is, Tifa likes pretty much everyone. She likes Yuffie, even though she's pretty sure she's being _deliberately_ obnoxious about three-quarters of the time. She likes Vincent, even though you're hard-pressed to get five words out of him, and even when you do they're usually lugubrious and include the word 'sin' or 'redemption' or 'monster' or all of the above. She likes Cid, even though the words _he_ says are things Marlene really shouldn't be learning. She likes Reeve, even though he was planning to betray them, at first. She likes Barret, even though he has a bit of a one track mind. She adores Marlene, even though she never expected to be mothering (or at least big-sister-ing) a five year old. She liked Aeris quite a lot even though—to be honest—they were both interested in the same guy the whole time they knew each other. She _loves_ Cloud, even though he . . . even though he won't come home.

She just likes them all. And she knows that this probably doesn't make her look deep or discriminating, but damn it, it's who she is. She likes everyone, and that's what makes her such a good bartender, and that's why they all come back to Seventh Heaven when they're in a hard spot, even if they don't want to admit it. Because she likes them. She likes everyone.

She makes an exception for Turks.

She makes an exception for Turks because, although they're not really _bad guys_ anymore, she'll never be able to forget that it was Reno who pushed the button and killed Biggs and Wedge and Jessie. She makes an exception for Turks because they slide through Edge like they own the place, masked by sunglasses and matching smirks, slippery and cool and uncaring. (She makes an exception for Turks because, when you like everybody, it feels good to have somebody who you _don't_ go out of your way to please, someone whose happiness doesn't concern you, someone you can just . . . dislike.)

So part of her is actually pleased to find Elena in the alley behind the bar, starting up the fire escape toward the second floor, where Cloud's office is (or rather, her office; Cloud's around so little that she's the only one who ever uses it). It's been a long time since she's had a good legitimate excuse to work off some aggression.

She sprints the few steps between herself and the rickety stair, making enough noise that Elena spins fast and reaches under her jacket. Tifa's fists come up at the same time Elena's gun swings around.

They hold like that for a moment.

"I don't really want to shoot you," Elena says, conversational.

"I don't really want to break your elbow," Tifa returns. She considers. " . . . Actually, that's a lie. I kind of do. But I don't want to want to break your elbow."

Elena's smile is a baring of teeth. They're close enough that it's possible that Tifa could get in and shatter her elbow before she could pull the trigger, but it's also possible that she could get shot for her trouble.

But Tifa's so sick of standoffs, of holding still, holding her breath, waiting, that she just _moves_—a hard blow to Elena's wrist. Elena's arm falls and the gun goes off, the bullet chunking into the asphalt, and then she drops it, her hand limp in a nerveless sort of way that isn't surprising given the way Tifa hit her.

Then it's really on.

Elena leaps sideways off the second step of the fire escape, reaching under her jacket. Tifa decides not to let her get whatever she's going for and tackles her instead. They hit the ground rolling. For a second Elena has her pinned and her hand comes out of her jacket with a knife in it, but Tifa uses what's left of her momentum to roll them over again and slam Elena's hand hard against the gritty pavement. Elena doesn't drop the knife. Tifa increases the pressure on her hand until she's sure Elena's wristbones are going to give out, and at the last moment Elena's hand finally unclenches and the knife clatters to the ground.

Tifa feels the cold press of a gun muzzle against her stomach and thinks _god, I'm out of practice_, because that's the oldest diversion in the book—although Elena's wrist won't be good for much for a while, at least.

Elena doesn't say anything but glares at her from slitted dark eyes, her hair fanning out pale-gold and incongruous against the filthy ground, and the metal against Tifa's belly digs in a little more. She doesn't say anything. It wouldn't be the first time Tifa's been shot but she's not sure what her odds are against an angry Turk with a hole through her stomach, so she lets go of Elena's wrist and pulls back, on her hands and feet, an animal ready to lunge or flee. Elena gets to her feet carefully, without taking her eyes or her gun off Tifa, and Tifa feels a twist of pleasure that Elena flinches when she has to put weight on her nearly-crushed wrist to do it.

"Back up," Elena said, crisp and cold. "Stand facing the wall, hands behind you. I'm not going to shoot you," she says, "because you have a lot of friends who would make my life very annoying if I did, but I can't have you getting in my way."

Tifa turns, putting her hands behind her, and waits with her eyes closed and her muscles tense until she hears the rattle as Elena draws her handcuffs. She moves with speed that startles even herself, knocking gun and handcuffs aside with two quick blows and bowling Elena to the ground, and this time she gets her pinned before she can reach under that jacket (because god knows she seems to be carrying a whole _arsenal_ under there).

She's got Elena pinned by the upper arms but she'd got to do something because the way Elena's squirming it's clear she's had some martial arts training—nothing like Tifa's own expertise, but nothing shabby—and she'll figure out a way to get loose if Tifa doesn't stay on the ball. But while she's deciding whether she wants to knock Elena out or just rough her up so she remembers to leave former-Avalanche members alone in the future, Elena stops squirming and in one smooth motion pops one shoulder out from under Tifa's grip and leans up to seal her mouth over Tifa's.

Tifa is so startled that for a moment she doesn't move, and in that moment Elena's tongue darts out like quicksilver to trace over her lower lip, warm and wet and, and then Tifa composes herself enough to yank back and demand, "What the hell was that?"

"Dunno," Elena says, vulpine smile: "Figured it was worth a try."

Tifa just stares at her.

"He isn't fucking you, is he?" Elena says, and for a moment Tifa really sees red, because that's a low blow, that's hitting below the belt, that's _none of her goddamn business_, but before she can throttle her, Elena says, "It's okay. He's not fucking me, either." It takes Tifa a moment, during which a bewildered _of course not, he barely knows you_ floats through her head, before she realizes that Elena's not talking about Cloud anymore, she's talking about . . . who was her hopeless crush? She opens her mouth even though she isn't sure what she's planning on saying, and it turns out it doesn't matter because Elena leans up again and then her tongue is in Tifa's mouth.

(and it feels so good, to be kissed, and kissed hard and fierce and thorough and she's suddenly intensely aware of the warmth of Elena under her, the curve of the hips pinned between her thighs, the compact muscular body)

"I don't even like you," she says, when they come up for air.

"Yeah, I don't like you either," Elena says, and it feels like a weight lifted, because Tifa likes everyone, wants everyone to like her, and here with this woman she can hardly stand, there's no pressure.

Maybe that's why she's the one to start the next kiss, or maybe it's just the sharp-boned predator-animal look on Elena's face.

She's kissing hard and they're kissing hard and Elena is rolling her over and it's not fighting like girls are _supposed_ to fight—there's not much scratching and the only biting is Elena's teeth on the inside of Tifa's lip, until she tastes blood and bites back. It's real fighting, her grip hard on Elena's shoulders until she's sure she must be leaving bruises, and Elena slamming her against the gravel so that her back aches. Elena hooks two fingers under Tifa's waistband and yanks, and the button on Tifa's skirt pops and the skirt comes down a few inches, not off but revealing more of her stomach. Tifa's hands dig into Elena's hair and yank, and it feels so fucking good not to worry about how the other person feels, for once, for once, for once.

Tifa feels cold steel on her stomach, the flat of a blade, and Elena's smile like a blade, so she puts contempt in her voice and says, "Do you think I haven't ever been knifed before?"

And Elena makes the blade vanish through some trick of her own, and says, "Then take off your shirt and show me the scars."

Instead Tifa grabs Elena's shirt in her hands and yanks—not just popping buttons but tearing, too, ruining it—and drags it down and off. She sees then the secret of Elena's here-then-gone blades, leather sheaths strapped up her forearms, dark leather, fair skin.

Elena's skin under her clothes is moon-pale, and she's got a smear of dirt across her cheekbone, and though she's fair as Cloud they don't look anything alike, and Tifa's grateful for that, obscurely. This has nothing to do with him and everything to do with him, and—

— and Elena twists her wrist so the knife drops out of its sheath and into her hand again, then flips her grip on it and slices Tifa's shirt open clear down the front, from throat to hem. Tifa can feel the cold-metal whisper of the knife, barely brushing her skin, not enough to even leave a mark but enough to know it's there. Like an afterthought, Elena twists the blade so it snaps through the thin part of her bra, between the cups.

She squeezes Elena's wrist again and Elena stifles a sound of pain and drops the knife for the second time. Elena curves her free hand around one of Tifa's breasts and squeezes hard, hard enough to make Tifa moan despite herself—and she hears the sound echo and realizes that they're outside, half-naked in an alley, behind her own bar. _Radically_ bad idea. But some days are made for bad ideas. Elena squeezes again, hard, her eyes dilated and her lip curled back. The position puts her off-balance, though, so Tifa rolls her over, and Elena doesn't protest but slides a hand down under the ruined waistband of Tifa's skirt.

And lower, into Tifa's panties and past her slick lips, fast and without preamble. (And she's very nearly embarrassed that she's not just wet but soaking, because fighting gets her going, and the boys she's been with always want to be _gentle_ and sometimes that's what she wants but sometimes it just isn't.) Tifa bites back a hoarse needy sound, and masks it by saying, "I hope you've trimmed your nails recently." Elena touch makes her spread her knees and rock her hips, pushing forward, greedy.

To her shock Elena laughs. "I always keep them short," she says, "for my _work_," and on the last word she pushes deep and twists, and the hot liquid feeling that surges up Tifa's spine makes her legs turn to water.

And it feels good, even though she wishes it didn't, and she tilts her hips to make the angle better. But she wants to do something about that smug look on Elena's face, so she gets her hand into Elena's pants and pushes down over damp curls. Elena catches her breath, and says, "Fuck, that's it," and Tifa's fingers slide over hot slick flesh and rub until she finds the spot that makes Elena's breath stutter. She rubs firmly to see if it's the right place, and Elena _keens_.

Elena thrusts her fingers in, trying one angle and then another until she finds the spot that makes the pressure really start to build in earnest—dark heat sinking low in Tifa, more and more until she's making little low noises, hard breathing with some voice behind it. Elena slides another finger in and tilts her hand until the heel rubs hard against Tifa's clit, and she's shaking, they're both shaking, making raw noises, muscles tense and sweat beading.

Tifa's determined not to get off first, but from the look on her face so is Elena, and so it takes longer than it otherwise might. They're both so rough that it hurts toward the end—Elena gets a fourth finger in, and that's almost enough that it stops feeling good but not quite, riding the blade-edge between too much and just right—nerves overstimulated but still screaming for a little more. Elena groans and tenses up, her knees flexing, and moans high and breathy and sharp as broken glass. It isn't too long before Tifa comes too, with a violence that startles her, pulsing hard and tight around Elena's fingers stretching her out. Her heart pounds enough to make her chest hurt, and for a moment she can't suck in enough breath.

Then, very suddenly, it's over.

Their clothes are destroyed, but Tifa can get up the fire escape and find fresh ones before anyone notices, and with the suit jacket buttoned the ruin of Elena's shirt is considerably less obvious. The fact that they're both sweaty and grimy and smell like sex would be harder to explain, but . . . well, Tifa can take a bath, and she realizes that she still doesn't care how Elena's going to explain it or if she's going to even bother, although she does wonder what the object of Elena's affection will think of it.

(Cloud won't find out—if he were here, he'd figure it out in about three seconds, but if he were here it wouldn't have happened in the first place.)

"I still don't—" she begins.

"Like me," Elena says, "I still don't like you much either." She looks at Tifa from behind the veil of her fair hair, streaked now with dirt. "Gotta admit, though, I kind of thought you liked everybody. Bleeding heart orphan-adopting type."

"I do," Tifa says. "Just not you."

Elena snorts, and gives her a smile, wry, all teeth.

"Stay away from Seventh Heaven," Tifa says. "Next time you come skulking around, I'll call in the reinforcements."

Elena gives a one-shoulder, maybe-I-will-maybe-I-won't shrug, but she's smart enough not to try to retrieve her guns. Shinra can afford replacements, Tifa thinks, ungenerously. Elena does re-sheathe her knives, and Tifa lets her. She stalks away with that alleycat walk the Turks affect, the infuriating one that she must have learned from Reno, without looking back at Tifa even once. The last thing Tifa sees before she decides not to watch her walk away either is Elena trying to smooth her ruffled hair.

And Tifa knows she should feel degraded (angry sex with someone she knows little and likes less, and in an alley, of all places) but she feels giddy instead, like she's had too much to drink. Because friends are the best things in the world, but it's satisfying to have a really good enemy.


End file.
